An Illusory Composition

Frightening, how coherent thought can cease,
How encompassing discrepancy and demise can be.
Let it be
Turned around and turned into a lack of something
Turned into the man governing my idealogical process
Of where to- How to-
The fluorescence gleaming from the upturned palms
Upturned, backward, headstrong,
A fearful fist of salt into your eyes
Shaving all truth from your knowledge
All possibilities yielded to a purely bureaucratic source
Given no reverence,
The forearm is called upon, 
Before we begin, I'll need to scan your numbers